Christmas Ghosts
by MadBat27
Summary: Batman, remembering the dead at Christmas time. Xmas fic 4/25.


The rain sifted down gently, little more than a mist. By the look of the sky, there'd be snow before Christmas. There'd be sleet before morning.

It was a rare, calm night in Gotham. Nothing beyond the usual petty thefts. Batman suspected something insidious lurking somewhere beneath the radar. There was always something. If not a plan in motion, an escape or disaster. A rumor, a dare, an accident. A split-second decision which would change lives - maybe end lives. There's always something.

Nevertheless, it was an opportunity to carry out some of those more neglected duties.

He'd spent time at the office, checking on the affairs of Wayne Enterprise, ensuring everything was in order. No embezzlements, no rainforests cleared, no funding of organized crime. Nothing to hint at the company's involvement with the Batman in the R&D records.

His parents' grave had been a priority, too. It shouldn't take a special occasion for them to warrant a visit. Too often, he only had time to set down a rose before he was off to catch a criminal. He wondered sullenly if he would have been the same had they lived – brushing his mother's cheek with a kiss before he disappeared to another country for a month, shirking his responsibilities for parties and women, only speaking to his father when he needed bailing out.

Would he really have been so bad, had the murder never taken place? The playboy he pretends to be is only an illusion, but he sometimes fears it is the true Bruce Wayne. Once the sorrow and grief is pushed aside and the healing begins… he has to wonder. Maybe the crusade is all that keeps him a good man.

At other times, he feels the Bat is the quintessence of his character. Would he still be out on his crusade, then? His potential paths all seem equally depressing. Such is the effect of Christmas on an orphan. The family time he never had, the presents he never gave, the magic that never existed and the childhood he never had.

Or perhaps it was just the setting, cemeteries are so rarely a cause for joyous thoughts.

Bruce traipsed through the unkempt graveyard, stumbling over clumps of weeds and protruding roots. Scanning his surroundings all the while, he moved on carefully and quietly. Somewhere out there was Solomon Grundy.

Stopping at the grave, Bruce bowed in his head in respect. He felt the wind bluster around him, his coat flapping in the wind. The Dark Knight wasn't needed for this. This would be a job for a philanthropist. A good man. Whether it was his true self or not.

He laid the wreath of holly down on the dirt mound. This was where they buried men who had been refused by the Church; a simple allotment of land, not far from the swamp. Among the dead were suicides, the ex-communicated, he mad and possessed. And Solomon Grundy.

The church wouldn't bury the undead in sacred ground, so the burial had happened there. They had dug an unmarked grave for Cyrus Gold, a distance from the others, closer to the swamp in which he was first interred. The dirt had been disturbed, just as they had predicted.

Bruce stood at the empty grave in deep reflection. For all he had done, would he too be denied a resting place on sanctified soil? Certainly, there were those who called him mad. Some even believed him to be the Devil incarnate.

He stared at the card, nestled between the leaves of holly. On it, was inscribed an invitation and address to an old, condemned, but structurally sound building in the East End. There, the billionaire had arranged to have a meal – a full Christmas dinner – cooked and delivered in the evening. The building would be empty and Solon Grundy could enjoy the festive season in safety. The demolition wasn't scheduled until the 6th of January.

Another building on the other side of the island had been repurposed in exactly the same way, but this time for the homeless. Bruce would be there, disguised, to feed the needy. But did charity make a rich man good, he wondered.

"It's easy to give, when you have so much," he muttered to himself.

It was easy to believe he would still have been a crime-fighter, regardless of money, but the reality wasn't so clear-cut. Without money, the gadgets and hideouts wouldn't be available to him. The huge amounts of spare time would be occupied by working for a living.

Would he still sacrifice his nights for justice then?

And what if he'd come back from the dead, the way Cyrus Gold had? Bruce couldn't pretend he'd have made any different choices. He wasn't sure Grundy was capable of it. He was a near-thoughtless corpse, reanimated without true sentience, persecuted for what he had become. He'd had no choice.

Bruce shook his head and wiped the droplet from his brow. It was time to get away from the burial ground, before he became any more morose. Alfred and Tim were waiting at home. Perhaps Selina would be in touch this year.

"Merry Christmas, Cyrus."

Bruce smiled wryly, and turned away. Even as he left, circumnavigating the mess of burrows and divots, the wind died down. Unseen, a hulking creature moved from the shadows.

Lank, white head topped his square head, as though it had been nailed on in tufts. His jaw hung open, showing teeth like tombstones in his gaping maw. Menacingly, he shuffled forward, his dead grey eyes glinting like iron in the soft moonlight.

Looming above his own grave, Cyrus Gold took the card and the bottle of bourbon and murmured a thank you.

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday."


End file.
